


Things that make you go, 'hngh.'

by Nanimok



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adorable Connor, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Connor Deserves Happiness, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Gym Trainer AU, Gym Trainer AU that's not really about gymming, Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Humour, M/M, Protect Markus Squad, Protective Connor, Soft Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Connor is a simple man. He sees Markus, Hank's new personal trainer. He falls in love-but-mostly-lust. He wants Markus for life.If only life was as simple as Connor was.





	Things that make you go, 'hngh.'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/gifts).



> Thank you to Ley, Saelym, Ai, Headraline, Mimoru and basically everyone in the RK1K Discord chat who encouraged, cheer leaded, and enabled this fic hahahah. 
> 
> This was supposed to be short, filled with memes and shitposting, but then The Great [Mimoru](https://mimorugk.tumblr.com/) drew art from it and it,,,just became 11k worth of fluff about Markus being taken care of.

Hank has noticeably changed since he’s gone to the gym; he’s slimmer, he’s complaining about his joints less, he’s stronger, and he’s practically glowing. He joins Cole, Connor and Sumo at the park more often, and he always comes home energized, harping on about how his trainer is a ‘merciless bastard’ with the kind of affection he usually reserves for his kids.

“Markus told me about this basketball club that’s on every Thursday,” Hank says one night. “Feel like I should give it a try.”

Hank’s been going to the club for about three months now. He’s even roped his friend, Connor and Hank’s boss, along to his basketball club, and that’s just weird because Connor forgot that they were even friends.

One day, Hank comes home, and Connor almost doesn’t recognise him.

“Woah, dad,” Cole says. “What happened to you hair?”

Hank’s normally unruly mane has been shaved; short at the side, fluffy at the top. “Markus referred me to his hairstylist friend today,” Hank says, running his hand against his groomed beard. “Got me a good deal, and a shampoo too while they were at it. What do you think?”

Dare he say that Hank looks handsome and, more surprisingly, refreshed?

Connor’s starting to think that this ‘Markus’ is some kind of miracle worker.

Perhaps the most shocking part of Hank's complete change happens during dinner, when they’re just eating and chatting as usual. Everything is normal until Hank reaches for a second helping of vegetables.

The conversation screeches to a halt.

Cole looks at Connor. Connor looks at Cole. They both look at Hank.

It’s a while until Hank notices. “What?” Hank says, chewing the broccoli like it has committed a personal crime against him.

“You’re having a second helping of vegetables,” Connor says.

“Vegetables, dad,” Cole says, nodding.

“ _Willingly,_ as well _,_ ” Connor says. “I didn’t have to threaten you even _once_!”

Hank rolls his eyes, before looking down at his plate, guilty as all hell, and mumbling around his food, “S’good for building muscles, you know?”

Connor sits back in his chair in shock. Cole almost drops his fork.

Connor has literally been bugging Hank to eat his vegetables the second he realised Hank wasn’t going to place him back into the foster system, and after years of nagging, all it takes for Hank to finally accept vegetables as a beneficial entity in his life, as opposed to the menacing necessity he swears it to be, is a word from _Markus._

Connor has _got_ to _meet_ this guy.

Connor sneaks beside Hank in the kitchen. Undetected, he waits until Hank is in the middle of gulping down a glass of water.

“Are you and Markus dating?” he asks.

Hank chokes on his water. “Jesus Christ, Connor!” he gurgles out, before coughing so much that Connor feels mildly bad and pats his back in response. “No!” he says. “No, I’m not dating Markus!”

Narrowing his eyes, Connor asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Hank says, patting his chest.

“Are you _sure-_ sure?” Connor insists.

Hank rolls his eyes. “What are you? Eight years old?”

“I’ve been nagging you to exercise more often and you’ve been so against it. I even offered to take you to my gym—”

“You go to a free running gym,” Hank says. “My back breaks from just watching you.”

“It’s just parkour, Hank,” Connor says. “Anyone can start and work their way up if they’re serious about it.”

“Just parkour he says,” Hank mutters in his breath. “It’s just another somersault across the roof, he says. If I ever try one of your courses, I will be literally running to my death.”

This time it’s Connor who rolls his eyes. “And you say _I’m_ the melodramatic one.”

“There’s a saying—I’m sure you’re familiar with it,” Hank says. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the fucking tree, smartass.”

“I’m being derailed,” Connor says. “You had a second helping of vegetables, Hank. _Vegetables!”_ Connor flails his hands in emphasis. “I’ve been trying to get you to eat healthier for years, and one word from Markus and suddenly you’re building muscle, and you think broccoli’s delicious. I’m just saying that I’d understand. I wasn’t sure if you even swung that way, but hey, didn’t you tell me you were wild in your younger days? I’d understand even more so if he’s an pretty attractive guy. Cole and I think you should go out and meet more people anyway.”

“Connor,” Hank says. “I am _begging_ you to stop. Markus is just a good buddy of mine and—god, Connor. Pretty sure he’s about your age.”

Connor’s interest is piqued. “My age?”

“Yes,” Hank says. “Eight years old.”

Ignoring him, Connor asks. “Can I meet him?”

“Nothing stopping you from tagging along in the first place. You’re the one who didn’t want to go last time I invited you.”

“Yes, well, your gym just seems so…” Connor scrunches his nose. “ _Bro_ -ish.”

Hank snorts. “I thought you’d like that.”

“Frankly, I’m offended that you think I do.”

“Keep telling you that it’s Hank and not Frank, kid.”

The look Connor tosses him can only be described as pure, unadulterated disgust, and Hank slaps his knee while he cackles.

“Anyhow, we just came at a bad time when a bad lot of people were there,” Hank says, once he’s collected himself. “Trust me, Markus and North run a tight, welcoming, ship at Jericho. Come if you’re curious. The people there might surprise you.”

* * *

The thing is, Hank’s about that stage in his life where ‘about your age’ could range from five to twenty years about Connor’s actual age. The worst Hank’s ever done is lump Cole and Connor in the same age group in a casual comment, when in reality, Cole is thirteen and Connor’s twenty-five.

Thus, he doesn’t place much stock in Hank’s words. Even if it’s not Markus who caught Hank’s eye at the gym, there still could be someone else that has. Hank could be have made friends with someone he’s hoping to impress, so it’s still a good motive for Connor to visit and vet out the gym.

Gavin Reed, a fellow patrol officer, is ‘about his age’ according to Hank, and he goes to Hank’s gym. He’s also a massive asshole when Connor first started working at the station. A majorly repressed, unpleasant asshole whom Connor likes to make uncomfortable. The fastest way to get Gavin to shut his mouth, Connor has found, is to wear the shamelessly small crop top Chloe bought him along with shorts tight enough to cut off his circulation.

Connor may not be as blessed as other people in the butt department, but there _is_ something there, however firm and flat it may be, and Connor _is_ determined to flaunt it. Plus, it usually causes Gavin to choke as he fumes through all his personal issues.

A definite plus.

Thankfully, the way he dresses never bothers Hank. Hank only rolls his eyes whenever Connor gets a devious tilt to his head.

So Connor’s dressed in his usual crop top and shorts, and Hank’s in his usual gym wear when—

“Morning, Hank,” a voice that sounds like warm silk brushing against his skin greets. “Lovely to see you so early.”

—when an absolute _god_ in a white, hoodie, singlet, short, and jogging tights waves at them from the reception table.

Hank waves, before calling back, “Same to you, Markus.”

Connor almost trips on thin air. “Markus?” Connor hisses. “ _That’s_ Markus?”

“Yeah. Why?” Hank asks, before smirking. “Something up?”

Hank’s an absolute dick. He already knows that something’s up.

The ‘ _something’_ that is ‘ _up’_ is how Connor always makes a damn fool of himself around beautiful men, and _oh boy,_ is Markus the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

Smooth brown skin, blue eye on the left, green on the right (‘ _heterochromia,’_ his mind numbly whispers), and freckles dotting his adorably curved nose… The sides of his singlet dips low enough for Connor to see his chest—sculpted, hard, bountiful chest. Muscled enough that Connor would probably break his molars if he bit into him. Soft enough that Connor could probably lie on it and let himself be cradled to sleep afterwards.

On top of that, his smile makes Connor feel like his soul is being purified from where he’s standing.

God, he was so screwed.

God, he _wants_ to be so screwed.

“Connor, you there? Did you forget to breathe again?” Hank whispers to him. “I’m pretty sure his eyes aren’t on his chest. How about you leave the drooling to Sumo, huh, Connor?”

Heat rushes to his cheeks. He glares at Hank, wiping the back of his hand on his mouth—just in case. “You could’ve warned me!”

“Warning you now,” Hank says. “Quick. He’s coming. For the love of god, act natural—Hey Markus. Your day going well?”

Markus shakes the hand that’s offered. “My day just got better now that my favourite client is here. Who’s your friend?”

Then he turns his brilliant, brilliant, eyes at Connor, and Connor instantly forgets twenty-five years of his existence.

Hank elbows his side.

“Son— _hngh_ —Markus, hi!” Connor says. “Sorry, I’m—I mean—I’m Hank’s son. Connor. Hi, Markus. My name is Connor and I’m Hank’s son.”

There’s silence after his proclamation. Both Hank and Markus looks at him expectantly. Connor realises that he’s been letting Markus’s hand hang in the air for the last five seconds. He shakes it sheepishly, and he wishes the ground would just crack in two so it could swallow him whole.

Connor can hear Hank figuratively smack himself.

“Connor,” Markus says, and his eyes crinkles in amusement. “The eldest one. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Oh dear,” Connor says.

Markus laughs, and Connor’s knees almost collapses because of it. “Nothing bad, don’t worry. Are you here to tag along with your dad in one of our trainings?”

“Uh,” Connor says.

“Yeah, sure. Why not,” Hank says. “What are your rates for a visitor?”

“First time’s free, then it’s the usual from there on,” Markus says. “How would you rate your fitness level, Connor?”

Connor swallows. “My…what, pardon?”

“He’s advanced. He’ll probably need harder stuff to do while he waits for me,” Hank says. “But he told me he’s looking to improve his core strength and flexibility, isn’t that right, Connor?”

Both Hank and Markus turn to look at him again. “…Right,” Connor says weakly.

Markus claps his hand. “Great!” He gives Connor another one of his blinding smiles. “I’m excited to work with you, Connor. Pain is a great way to bond, I find. Hank and I are already very good friends, so I hope we’ll be getting to know each other very well in the next hour or two.”

In truth, Connor only registers half of what’s going on, but Markus is smiling, and he’s looking at Connor in a way that expects him to smile as well. So he does, probably a little too wide and soft-eyed, judging by the disgust rolling off Hank at the corner of his vision. 

“Yeah, me too,” Connor says, almost a sigh. “Me too.”

* * *

How someone can be so inspirational, so earnest and kind, smile like an angel reincarnate as he causes pure, agonising, pain through every single fibre of Connor’s muscles? In a single session, Connor feels reborn; trialed, tested and deemed worthy by a prestigious deity. Hank was on the mark when he affectionately called Markus a sadistic bastard.

“This doesn’t explain how you completely fucked yourself up, Con,” Chloe says, rearranging the blanket around him while he lies on the couch.

“Right.” Connor sighs longingly. “That.”

That part comes while Connor was warming down on the treadmill and Markus was walking Hank through the steps of a barbell squat. Connor was helpless to watch as Markus’s pants stretched tighter and tighter over his wonderful muscled ass—

“Tripped over my own feet, flew off the treadmill, and rolled my ankle,” Connor says, slow and staggered. “Worth it, though.”

“Connor,” Chloe says reproachingly. “That’s the drugs talking. You could have broken something.”

“It was amazing,” Connor says instead. “The seams of his pants were about to _explode._ You should’ve seen him, Chloe.”

“I’m not a fan of getting injured, thank you.”

“He could’ve suffocated me with them and I would have thanked him,” Connor says dreamily. “So _round_...”

“Stop,” she begs. “ _Please_ stop. You’re not you when you’re thirsty.”

“And then he stayed with me while I got checked up,” Connor says. “He was telling me his other job as a casual artist and how he volunteers at his friend’s Community Center… it was perfect. _He’s_ perfect.”

Connor’s pretty sure Hank was yelling at him throughout the whole journey, but after the point where they doped him up, his world condensed down to Markus and his voice.

The way it should be.

“Worth it,” Connor says again, not a single regretful bone in his body.

* * *

Sixteen days and a new gym membership later finds Connor back on his two feet, waiting for his first session with Markus as his personal trainer.

"Connor," Markus says. "You bounced back quick."

Stifling a comment about other things Connor would like to bounce on, he says, "Grade one ankle sprain. Nothing too serious."

Then his mind wanders off to Markus and his thighs, and _said_ thighs as warm, heavy weights across Connor’s waist.

"So," Connor says, after approximately two seconds of fantasizing later. "What's first?"

Markus generously ignores his pause. "Depends on what you're hoping to accomplish out of these sessions."

God, Markus just makes it too easy, but that's not completely accurate since really it's just Connor that's so easy.

Despite the initial lust crashing into him like a tsunami wave, Connor doesn't act on it further. Markus really is a great personal trainer, and Connor _has_ been looking for new exercises to challenge himself with. 

He exudes an air of warm encouragement, which probably works because Connor is almost terrified of disappointing him, and he targets muscle groups Connor has previously neglected in his trainings. His muscles always feel a satisfying burn after their sessions, along with a huge sense of accomplishment echoed by Markus’s praises.

Not to mention, working under Markus also leaves him with more time to focus on his skill and technique when he goes to his free running gym.

"Don't even try to lie to me," Chloe says. "You also get to watch him flex while he's all sweaty and flushed."

"Excuse you," Connor says. "I'm the one that does most of the sweating here."

Chloe's not really far off, though. The amount of times Markus had touched him to rearrange his form...

"Not only are you cheating on our gym, but you're not even listening anymore," Chloe moans. "I miss non-thirsty Connor. He always paid attention to me."

"I am paying attention," Connor says.

"You were thinking about Markus."

"Okay," Connor says. "Maybe I was."

"You absolute useless twink."

"How dare you," Connor says indignantly. "I am a twunk, thank you very much. I have muscle. And please, You can't talk after your Elijah phase."

Elijah was Chloe’s college boyfriend until she found out that all of his exes looked exactly like her. Then she dropped him like a hot potato and ran as fast as she could.

Chloe points at him. "Not fair." She glowers. "That was clearly a phase we’re supposed not to mention again. Like Markus possibly is, right?"

"Hmm. Maybe," Connor says. "Have I ever told you that he's a volunteer art teacher in his spare time?"

Connor can be a pretty charming conversationalist when he sets his mind to it. Slowly, ever so slowly, through stories of Cole, Sumo, Hank, and Chloe, Markus begins to let his guard down. Markus tells him about Carl and his friends, the car crash that took his kidney—

“It was so long ago,” Markus says. “I have a scar and medications for it. Otherwise, my life is as it is.”

Markus also tells him of how he fell into personal training during art school and found it rewarding; how he can help people learn, work, and achieve new things about themselves.

He’s gotten lucky with some of his freelance work as an artist, he says. Between him, his inheritance, and four other friends, they managed to scrape enough money to start up Jericho, a local gym focused on encouraging those who find it hard to make time for themselves.

As a result, their membership fees are low, much lower than their competitors, and they have discounts for single parents, as well as strong ties to the nearby community center, which provides a safe place for children of clients to stay during their classes.

His friend Simon and North runs the day to day business of the gym, while Markus’s time is divided between painting, the gym, and the community center.

"I've been meaning to ask," Markus says. "Lucy and I have been thinking about launching a women’s self-defence class. Would you be able to help with it?”

Lucy is one of Directors of the community center, Connor knows, along with another woman named Kara. While fighting comes to Connor as easily as breathing, that doesn't mean he feels qualified enough to run a self-defence class.

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with my ability to teach,” Connor says. “Fortunately, I know someone who might.”

In actuality, Tina Chen owes him a favour, and isn’t she lucky that Connor will call in the favour for something Tina might enjoy anyway?

Besides, Tina gets her revenge when she uses Connor as her body volunteer. His night is then spent being flipped and thrown onto mats and playing ‘bad guy’ to the women attending the class—which isn’t actually that bad since Connor knows how to roll and distribute his momentum properly. 

He gets to North in his practice rotation, one of Markus’s closest friends, and her smile is akin to a shark baring her teeth at the sight of prey.

He almost breaks into a cold sweat.

He's faced angry people high on numerous substance. He's faced down gang members and the barrel of a gun. They all have nothing on North. 

It’s all worth it, however, to see Markus’s proud smile above him as he offers Connor a hand up.

* * *

Hank corners him in the living room. “God, you’re so painful to watch,” he says. “Just end the suffering, will you?”

Connor pauses. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says carefully.

Hank raises one eyebrow, before handing Connor his phone.

It’s a picture of Markus kneeling on one knee during one of their training sessions. He’s talking to someone off camera, animated and charismatic as he usually is. Beside him, lying on the mat, is Connor, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up, leaning on one elbow while smiling dopily at Markus.

This is possibly one of the most incriminating photos Connor has seen in his life. He'll need to obliterate any and all existing copies without Hank finding out after this.

Connor flushes a bright red and hands the phone back. “How did you…?”

“State secret, son,” Hank says, because he thinks he’s so funny, before smirking at him.

Connor doesn’t like how satisfied Hank looks. Like Sumo right after he’s snuck a piece of chicken off the kitchen counter.

“Well, at least I know it wasn’t you who took the picture,” Connor says to himself. “It’s not even the tiniest bit blurry.”

Hank rolls his eyes, and even though Connor got in the last word, he feels like Hank is the one who wins this round.

* * *

“Hey, Connor,” a voice calls from behind him.

Markus isn’t at the gym today, so Connor doesn’t know who to expect when he turns around. Upon finding that it’s North calling for him, however, he does a double take.

Lord, he’s alone with North in the parking lot. Sure, Connor can disarm a man twice his size without breaking a sweat, but is that _really_ enough to take one North? Someone Markus describes as a modern day Valkyrie? Who almost bit the ear off someone in college in a bar fight?

She could probably dispose of Connor’s body and no one would ever find it.

He resists the urge to jump into his car and slam the accelerator, because no—he’s not afraid of North—North who's half his size but who wouldn't blink if she ever got him into a chokehold—no, _never—_

North folds her arms. Her biceps bulge threateningly. “Well?” she asks.

It takes him a second to realise that she just asked him a question. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Connor says. “Pardon me?”

The corner of North’s mouth curls up. She can probably sense his fear.

“Markus left some of his brushes at the office,” she says, hiding her mirth. “He won’t need it for his class, but he’ll need it later, for when he goes to his studio. Could you bring the brushes with you? You’re going to the community center right?”

He wasn’t going to the community center at first but he is now.

Markus is in the middle of a class when Connor finds him. His audience is admittedly much younger than Connor imagined they would be. They sit in a circle surrounding a vase of flowers, and seeing Markus as the lone giant in a sea of short heads is a rather amusing sight, Connor decides.

“Connor,” he says, eyes crinkling in a smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

Connor remembers the plaque he walked by, and it finally clicks. “They named a wing after you,” he says. “You funded the community center.”

Markus ducks his head, almost bashful. “I’ve been very fortunate with my art and my inheritance,” Markus says. “It’s the usual story, really; my friends had the dream, I just had the means to execute it, that’s all. This is all them. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. What brings you here?”

Connor hands him the brushes. “You left your brushes at the gym.”

“Drat,” Markus says. “I knew I was forgetting something. Thank you for bringing it to me. Surely, that can’t be all you’re here for?”

Markus only left three brushes behind—as few as Connor’s excuses, it seems.

Connor suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was, actually. I should…go…”

“Wait,” Markus says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Markus gets up, grabs a pencil and sketchpad on his table, and hands it to Connor.

Connor resists the urge to push it back into Markus's hands. He eyes it dubiously instead.

“Connor,” Markus says, hiding his chuckle. “Don’t look at it like it’s about to commit a crime against you. It’s just some paper and a pencil. Take it.”

Connor cautiously takes the sketchpad and pencil from him.

Markus drags a chair beside him. He pats it. “Come. Sit. Participate.”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, but he sits anyway. “I haven’t drawn in a while… I fear the paper will grow sentient and set itself on fire when I finish.”

“Aren’t we lucky, then, that the vase is full of water,” Markus says. “Come on, Connor. You’ve protested less during gym than what you’re doing now.”

Well, that’s because Connor could watch the Markus’s muscles flex whenever he demonstrates a move. He concedes, though, since it’s Markus and his blue-green eyes and Connor would never be able to deny those eyes anything.

* * *

“You’re laughing again.”

A calculated and prolonged pause. Then, a guilty, almost wheezy, “I am not laughing.”

“Markus,” Connor says. “Your face is turning red.”

“I’m just,” Markus carefully inhales, “distinctly aware that every subject is open to creative interpretation, and your interpretation… is… very creative, Connor. _Very_ creative. Well done.”

Of course, Markus would look at his drawing and see creative interpretation. Connor looks at his drawing and sees fire kindle.

“Connor,” Markus says, pushing Connor’s sketchpad away from his view. “You’re glaring again.”

One last grumble and Connor begrudgingly peels his eyes away from his sketchbook.

* * *

Markus trickles into every part of his life like warm honey. Possibly because Connor is quite eager to be trickled on, but he keeps that thought to himself.

(Somewhat.)

He keeps forgetting equipment and items at the gym; brushes, pencils, music books—endless amount of items which North complains as she pushes them onto Connor’s chest. Despite a tiring day at patrol, despite a tiring work out at the gym, Connor always manages a polite goodbye before he dives into his car and flitters on the edge of the speed limit all the way to the community centre, since he doesn’t want to seem desperate, after all.

One day, Markus invites him to the gym. Not as client and trainer, but as _friends._

Connor got to watch Markus’s biceps bulge as _friends._ He got to watch Markus’s face flush a rosy red during his bench press as _friends,_ and watch sweat glisten the curves of his chest and thighs during their run as _friends,_ and got to feel the warmth of Markus arm slung around his shoulders as they both stank to the high heavens as good, _good, friends._

Connor sighs while preparing dinner one night. “Cole,” he says. “Do you think Markus and I are normal friends, or very good friends? Am I thinking too much into it?”

Cole, who’s been dragged to the community centre and art museum one too many times, who just wanted to grab some simple juice from the fridge, freezes like a deer in headlights.

“It’s a ‘pass’ from me,” Cole says, before bolting from the kitchen.

 _That’s fine,_ Connor thinks. Hank should be home any time soon, anyway. He’s always complaining about janky knees and rickety ankles; he won’t be able to run as fast as Cole does.

* * *

“Hank was a mess when I first came and lived with him,” Connor says, following Markus to his studio after a lesson with the community centre one day. “He’s still a mess now, if we’re being honest.”

“That’s funny,” Markus says, fiddling with his keys. “He said the exact same thing about himself, almost verbatim.”

"Hank's always been self-aware," Connor says approvingly. 

"You know, from his stories in the beginning, I almost forgot who was the teenager and who was the father in the situation."

Funnily enough, this reminds him of the time Hank found him teary eyed and devastated at the thought of Sumo's mortality. Between his tight hug and gruff comforting, there's just some things about being a father that Hank is better at. 

"Yeah," Connor says fondly, "I find that Hank is exceptionally skilled at it in some areas, though."

Markus gives him an indulgent smile. "Oh?"

"I came across an article about FIV when I was younger; it distressed me greatly.” 

“FIV?”

“Feline Immunodeficiency Virus.”

“Oh,” Markus says. “Cat Aids.”

“Cat HIV,” Connor corrects.

“My mistake,” Markus says. He sounds like he’s laughing. “Please carry on.”

“As far as I know, there’s no canine equivalent of FIV, but I was too deep in the research, and I started doubting myself. Hank had to dig up Sumo's old adoption papers and health history to stop me from crying."

“Huh,” Markus says. "Weren't you sixteen when you started living with Hank?"

"It's was a very distressing issue," Connor assure him. "It still is."

“I’m sure it is,” Markus says. “Cat sex.”

“Amongst other ways to get infected.”

“Cats,” Markus says. “Having sex. With other cats.”

“I assure you that cats take their mating very seriously, Markus,” Connor says primly.

Markus completely loses it. “Connor, please,” he says. “I need to be able to breathe in order to paint. Don’t you want to see my pieces anyway?”

“Yes, of course,” Connor says. It’s why they’re here in the first place. “Lead the way.”

Markus leads him to a paint splattered room. Canvases rests against the walls. Sheets are thrown over furniture. There are drawers with rows and rows of paint set arranged, showing an eye-catching gradient of colours. Markus is a master of organized chaos—North has always proclaimed this. Connor is starting to see what she means.

Markus takes him on a grand tour of unfinished pieces. Ranting and raving on the highs and lows of the art process. On the rare occasion that the piece is finished however, Markus treats it with a reverence akin to parent holding a new-born baby.

There’s a particular piece on the wall, a blur of two figures amidst a sea of blue and green. Connor can’t peg why, but he feels tremendous sense of loss when he looks at the picture, despite the bright shades of colour Markus used.

“This one is dedicated to my parents,” Markus says, coming to stand beside him. “I was so young when the crash happened. I hardly remember them as they were other than blurred figures in my memory.”

Despite the grief in his voice, Markus’s voice is fond. Affectionate despite his loss.

Connor doesn’t remember a life before jumping homes in the foster system. But it would be an honour, he thinks, to be immortalised under Markus’s brush.

He is about to tell Markus as such, when the door of his studio bangs shut, startling them apart a couple of steps. Connor snaps into attention, as Markus curses.

“Where is it,” a man says, “Where is the painting— _Markus!_ Where the hell are you, you fucking bastard! I know you’re in here! I saw your car!”

“Stay here,” Markus says. “I’ll handle this.”

Connor grabs Markus’s wrist. “He sounds agitated. I can’t possibly let you go over there alone.”

“Connor, please,” Markus says, although he doesn’t pull his arm away. “It’s… complicated.”

“Do you want me to call it in?”

“No,” Markus answers immediately. “It’s Leo.” Then he pauses, as if he’s debating whether he should share the next bit of information or not. His eyebrows draw down, like he’s in pain. “He’s my brother.”

Connor halts in his step.

Brother? Markus has a brother? Brothers are supposed to pick each other up from school, make food because the other is sick, or annoy each other into giving more space on the couch. Brother’s aren’t supposed to call each other bastards and _mean_ it.

A scrawny man comes barging in. He’s short, shorter than both Markus and Connor, with rumpled clothes, stubble, and unkempt hair. Connor would peg him as around his early-thirties. His moves are frantic, sharp and jittery. Connor would bet his next pay-check that his pupils are blown wide like the opening of a manhole.

“Leo, what you doing here?”

Leo clenches his jaw, striding up to Markus. “Where is his painting, Markus? I know you have it.”

“I fail to see why you need to know where they are,” Markus says, standing firm. “What you need to do, however, is _leave. Now,_ Leo _._ ”

“I don’t listen to you, you stupid son of a bitch,” Leo hisses. He pushes Markus backward. “Where’s his paintings, huh? It’s only going to be mine, anyway. If he’s not going to help me, then I’m just going to help myself.”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Markus hisses back. “Are you fucking high right now? Get yourself together! There’s a cop in the room—”

Leo pushes him hard enough for Markus to stumble back. “Shut the fuck up, and tell me where it is!”

Connor steps forward, only to be blocked by Markus’s arm. “Connor, it’s okay. Let me handle this.”

Connor hesitates. “Markus…”

Leo barks out a harsh laugh. “What? You’re so pathetic now that you need a scrawny ass twink to protect you? The golden boy’s too much of a fucking bitch to protect himself?”

“Cut that shit out, Leo. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“No, _you_ don’t know what you’re doing,” Leo says. “Hiding that shit, when it belongs to _me._ What? Stealing dad wasn’t enough for you? You have to steal his fucking paintings too?

That’s enough for Connor. “Sir, I’m going to need you to step back—”

Leo throws his arm around as he yells. “Fuck off!” Leo says, furious. “No one asked you, fucking cunt!”

Markus fumes. He grabs Leo’s arm. “Don’t talk to Connor that way—”

Leo reels back an arm and _slugs_ Markus across his jaw.

Anger like nothing before rushes through Connor like raging bullet. In a matter of seconds, Connor has Leo’s arm in one hand, and he sweeps Leo with his feet. Leo almost smacks his face onto the ground with a hard thump, and Connor straddles him, twisting his arms behind his back and pressing his weighdown when Leo tries to throw him off.

“ _Shit—”_

“If you know what’s good for you,” Connor says, his voice low and deadly. “Then you will. Be. Quiet.”

Something dangerous on Connor’s face must have shined through. Breathing heavily, Leo finally stops bucking.

Markus is still standing, bigger and heartier he is than Leo, but he seems to be in shock. His hand brush against his jaw, disbelieving and so, so, unbearably _hurt_.

“Markus,” Connor says.

Markus doesn’t reply.

_“Markus.”_

Markus snaps back into attention. “Yeah… yes,” he reaffirms, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“I think you should call it in,” Connor says. “Please. For your safety.”

“I… Yeah. Okay,” Markus says, wilting. “Okay.”

* * *

They find themselves at the police station, waiting to give their statement. Connor gives a reassuring smile to all of his colleagues tossing worried glances at him, and focuses on Markus sitting next to him, holding an ice bag to his face.

When Markus finally talks, he sounds like he’s ran a marathon. “I’m sorry, Connor,” he says. “I’m just… I’m so sorry.”

Connor doesn’t say anything for a while. He debates asking if Markus wants to press charges, a reflex from work, but he doesn’t. He wants to wrap Markus in his arms. He wants to tell Markus all the right things. He wants to give him a measure of comfort that Markus has always given him. Most of all, he just wants Markus to be okay.

“Why are you apologising, Markus?” Connor says, softly. “You did nothing wrong.”

Maybe it was the gentleness of his expression that did it, because Markus looks undone.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Markus says. “He used to stand for hours in weird poses to let me practice my anatomy. He helped me frame my work when I was younger, and told me to keep drawing even though I was so unrefined at the beginning but ever since college, ever since Carl’s accident, and the drugs…” Markus breaks off, shuddering in a breath. “I’m sorry… I forgot to ask if you were okay.”

“Markus, your brother assaulted you,” Connor says quietly. “I should be asking you that.”

“I am…” Markus seems to be at a lost. “I don’t know. I'm…”

Rubbing his face, Markus slumps further into his seat, and Connor can’t handle it; the way he’s hunched over, exhausted, the way he’s curling into himself,

He’s not sure what to do, so he settles for rubbing Markus’s back while Markus audibly controls his breathing.

Then Markus tells him more about Leo, about life before his drug habits, and his life and financial problems after. About how Carl refuses to help financially unless he was sobering up. How Leo turned to stealing Carl’s paintings and selling them to pay off his debts. How Markus took the rest of Carl’s paintings and locked them up once he realised what was happening.

“I know I shouldn’t hold on to how Leo used to be, but I can’t stop it,” Markus says. “Sometimes, I see flashes of the old him and I _can’t_ turn my back on him. I can't. He's my brother. I just…” Markus’s jaw ticks and he winces. He flips over his ice pack, his eyes shining under the fluorescent lights.

“I wish I had my brother back,” he whispers, more to himself than to Connor.

Then it’s only silence between then, until Markus is asked to follow the officer and give his statement.

* * *

“Markus, I don’t think you’re in the state to drive,” Connor says later on. “Let me.”

It speaks to his exhaustion that Markus relinquishes the keys of his car without protest. He only gives Connor a tired, grateful smile, squeezing the hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t make any conversation during their drive, only resting his head against the window with his eyes closed.

It’s completely dark when they arrive at the Manfred Mansion, but Carl is out by the front door waiting with Thomas. “Markus!” he says, rolling up to them. “Thank god you’re okay. Connor, thank you so much for bringing him home safely.”

“I am. I’m sorry for worrying. Shoot—” Markus turns to him. “I should drive you home. God, where are my keys—I swear I had them in my pocket. Wait. I gave you my keys, didn’t I—”

“Markus,” Connor cuts in, softly but firmly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I can Uber home.”

 _Carl needs you,_ he doesn’t say. _And I think you need him too._

His eyes does jump briefly to Carl, and Markus catches on. He rubs his hand on his side, seemingly confused on what to do with his hands, before grasping Connor’s forearms.

“Thank you, Connor,” he says. “For today. For everything.” He gives one last squeeze, his eyes bright and intense. “Please, at least wait for your Uber inside.”

Connor sees no reason not to. “Alright,” he says.

And so he goes inside, where Markus and Carl uses small talk as a reprieve from the Leo situation until his Uber arrives.

Back at home, he finds Hank and Cole on the couch. The TV is on, and they’re both already in their pyjamas. Cole’s even under a blanket.

“Hey,” Hank says. “Got a call from work. Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Or at least it will be. Why are you guys up so late? You all should be asleep.”

“Waiting for you to get home,” Cole mumbles sleepily. “It’s a work night, Connor.”

Connor’s heart swells with affection. “And it’s a school night for you, mister.” He considers them both, looking comfy and warm on the couch.

He spreads his arms out and flops on top of them.

“ _Christ_ , Connor.”

“You’re heavy,” Cole whines. “ _And_ you’re _cold.”_

Feeding off of their pain and suffering, Connor smiles menacingly.

Kicking out his legs, Cole whines louder, “ _Connor._ ”

“You’re going to snap my bones if you don’t move soon. I’m too old for this shit,” Hank says.

“Language,” Cole and Connor say simultaneously.

Hank rolls his eyes, and Connor realises that _this_ —Hank, Cole and him—his _family—_ a solid, loving unit—simply lying and existing on the couch is exactly what he needs after Leo.

* * *

In the morning, Connor gives them a brief version of what went down at Markus’s studio. Bleary eyed, eating their cereal, Cole and Hank listens attentively with minimal judgement.

“Rich people are weird, man,” Cole says after, wiser beyond his years.

“Darn right, they are,” Hank says.

Connor did say minimal judgement after all, not none.

“You should do something nice to cheer up Markus,” Cole says. “The night market’s on tonight. You should take him there.”

And people wonder why Cole is his favourite Anderson when he’s always the first to suggest the simplest solutions.

(Sorry, Sumo.)

“Good idea,” Hank says. “Tell North beforehand and I’m sure she can rearrange his schedule since she’s trained me a couple of times when Markus wasn’t around.”

“I should,” Connor says, more to himself. “Markus does like any kind of live music…”

He also loves surprises. While Connor feels neutral to a mild dislike with surprises, Markus adores anything with a hint of spontaneity. So, that’s what Connor tries to do. He texts North while he’s on patrol, asking what time Markus finishes work.

 _Why?_ Even through his phone, Connor can imagine North considering with her intense stare. _What do you need him for?_

 _Nothing too important,_ Connor texts back. _Though it’d be nice to take him to the night market. As a small surprise._

_Markus does like his surprises._

The next reply comes an hour later. _Everything’s all sorted,_ she texts back. _Markus should be at home around six._

_Thanks, North._

_No worries._

_You boys have fun out there_ _😉_

The wink takes him off-guard. North and Connor’s past interactions has always been cordial, but never really friendly. He doesn’t think too much of it, brushing it aside in favour of focusing on his work.

If anyone asks Tina, however, she’d say Connor had a spring in his step the whole day. Connor would deny it of course, even though he basically bolts out the door the minute he finishes work.

There’s space on the grass for people to lie on while they listen to music, so Connor packs them a picnic blanket, some flufy cushions for comfort, some blankets to cover them, artificial lights for vision, and food for them to eat in case they don’t find anything that piques their interest in the night market.

Despite having a sharp palate, Connor doesn’t actually have much preference when it comes to food and drinks. He appreciates most nuances of flavour, especially when it comes to wine, but he knows that Markus is a wine snob, so he asks Chloe—fellow wine snob—to give him some recommendations.

When she sends him a whole list, however, Connor decides to pick one red, and one white and just go with it. 

“Connor.” Markus beams at him when he opens the door. “This is a surprise.”

He looks tired, with bags under his eyes, and the traces of a bruise forming on his jaw. He’s wearing his paint smock, and Connor can see Carl and Thomas, Carl’s caretaker, peaking at them from the hallway. He’s not sure if they’re trying to be sneaky, but he smiles and waves at them anyway.

“Hi,” he says. “Are you free for me to borrow you for a night? I have something I want to show you.”

Markus blinks. “Sure,” he says, patting down his smock. “Let me just clean myself up and I’ll meet you down here in a couple of minutes?”

“No problem,” Connor says. “Oh! One more thing.”

He brings up a blindfold. 

That makes Markus pause. Connor can still see a hint of pink dusting his cheeks, but still, he raises one eyebrow. Behind him, Thomas and Carl look both scandalised and delighted at the new turn of events.

Connor blushes a fiery red. “It’s definitely not what anyone’s thinking right now.”

“Is it?”

“You like surprises,” Connor says in defence.

“Amongst other things,” Markus says, hiding his smile. “Do I have to have them on while I’m getting changed? The stairs could be lethal.”

“You’re very funny, Markus,” Connor tells him. “Please don’t quit your day job.”

Markus laughs, opening the door. The tiredness of his face melts into the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “Please come in.”

Carl and Thomas, thankfully, doesn’t grill him too much about his plans; just his job, his family, his hobbies, his opinions on the current political climate, and his plans for the future. He’s stood watch in interrogations less thorough than the current conversation, but he admires both Carl and Thomas for it; they really care about Markus.

Markus bounds down the stair. “How do I look?” he asks, smoothing down his shirt.

It’s a good thing there’s someone else in the room who can reply. Connor’s brain stops computing on the spot. Like a train chugging at full speed into a thick wall of pure beauty and bursting into flames.

Markus is wearing a dark blue button down with its sleeves rolled up to his elbow, showing off his delectable forearms, possibly woven from steel and moulded personally by the gods.

He grins at Connor expectantly, and if Markus thinks that Connor can talk after knocking the good sense out of him then he’s sorely mistaken.

The bruise on his jaw has magically disappeared. Markus waves at his face. “Makeup’s just another form of art,” he says.

“Ooh,” Carl says. “Good choice.”

“Pristine as usual,” Thomas says.

“Hngh,” Connor says.

Thomas, Markus and Carl looks at him, and it takes him a while to realise that he voiced his comatose moment.

Connor coughs and points to Carl and Thomas. “What they said,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Markus turns to Thomas and Carl. “Anything else before I go? I’m always a phone call away if you need me.”

“We’re fine,” Thomas says. “Let yourself enjoy this one, Markus.”

“You heard the man,” Carl says. “Enjoy yourself. That is an order.”

“But what if—”

“No ‘if’s,” Carl says. “You’re not allowed to come home before nine.” He shoos them out the hallway. “Go and have fun, Markus. You deserve it, and remember to use protection, okay? Can that worm before you squirm.”

Markus laughs nervously while Connor gapes, since surely— _surely_ —Markus’s _geriatric_ _dad_ couldn’t have said what Connor thought he said—

“Oh, Carl, you say the funniest things,” Markus says quickly, tugging Connor out the door. “Now I know where I got my sense of humour from. Okay! We’re going now! I’ll see you guys later!”

Markus’s hand is grabbing his. What a good time for his brain to stop working again.

The door closes behind them with a solid thud, and Connor lets himself be tugged out to his car. 

* * *

Previously, whenever he goes to the night market with Cole and Hank, or with just Chloe, they’d stick around the food stalls for the whole evening. They’d plan their trip around which stall they were going to eat from before settling down on the grass and listening to the live band playing on the sound stage.

Markus delights in every part of the market, however. He looks at the wares, drags Connor to the crafts and jewellery and paintings and clothes. He narrates his thoughts at light speed, talking with anyone and everyone entranced by his charms. Markus is such a force of nature, and Connor craves his attention; it’s like he’s running into the eye of the storm, but he’s addicted to the winds whipping across his skin, and Connor doesn’t want to stop.

But comparing Markus to the cold isn’t quite right. Everything about him makes Connor so warm; like his heart is filled to the brim and it’s bursting from happiness.

The blindfold comes in after Markus has had his fill with the stalls. Connor spies out a spot under the trees, far enough for privacy, close enough for the music. He lays out the blankets, arranges the pillows, hangs some artificial lanterns in the tree above them. He leads a food laden Markus by shoulders and his fingers accidentally brushes the back of Markus’s neck as he undoes the blindfold.

“Ta da!” Connor flourishes the blindfold back into his pocket. “What do you think?”

Connor expected wonder and delight. He expected loudness and wild, frantic energy. Markus does none of that. His face does something complicated as he takes in the blanket and the lights, and the music. Then, his shoulders shakes as he exhales.

“Connor,” he says, and his voice is quite, almost delicate. “What’s this?”

Markus is looking at him with a complicated expression. Connor shuffles his feet. He aches for something to fiddle in his hands. “I thought it’d be nice, after…after well,” Connor spreads his hands, “after everything that’s happened.”

“Why?”

“Why?’ Connor asks, incredulous. “Markus, you do so much! You give so much of yourself to other people and you ask for nothing in return!”

“And that bothers you?”

“Only when you forget to take care of yourself,” Connor says, lifting his chin up in challenge.

Connor expects a fight, but Markus laughs and laughs and _laughs_. He steps forward, sliding his hand up Connor’s forearms and gripping his shoulder, gazing at him like Connor’s given him the world. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “Guess I won’t have to worry about that as much since I have you with me, huh?”

His heart speeds up. His mouth dries up. Markus doesn’t let up with his stare and Connor has to swallow before replying. “That’s still no excuse. Please sit down and let me take care of you, goddamnit,” Connor says, half-joking but half-not-really.

“Alright,” Markus flops on the blanket. “You’re the boss.” He folds his arms behind his head and looks up at Connor with an expectant smile. “I’m yours.”

“Good,” Connor says, rummaging through his picnic basket. “Now would you like red or white for your drink?”

* * *

They’re lying on the pillows close enough that their legs are touching. Connor’s not drinking much, since he has to drive them home, but Markus keeps drinking, and the conversation keeps flowing while music plays behind them. It’s lulling; the cadences of Markus’s voice. Connor can’t remember the last them he enjoyed himself this much.

“Sometimes it feels like I ask for too much.”

“Hmm,” Connor says. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes it feels like I’m living on borrowed time,” Markus says. “The crash that killed my parents... I was in critical condition and I needed a kidney transplant. My parents weren’t a match, but the man who crashed into us was. He was also in critical condition. The doctors decided that I had a greater chance of surviving and…”

Markus places a hand on his side, near where there’s scarring if Connor recalls correctly.

“You can figure out the rest,” Markus says. “I was the only one fo come out of the whole ordeal alive. I know it makes no sense, but I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if the doctors had chosen otherwise.”

Is that why Markus gives so much of himself? Because of his guilt from surviving the crash?

No, Connor decides. In any lifetime, in any incarnate or any circumstance, Markus would still be the same compassionate and generous man he is today. Connor refuses to believe otherwise.

Connor rolls to his side. “You shouldn’t,” he says firmly. “The world would be worse off without you.”

“Because you said so?” Markus asks, amused.

“Yes, because I said so,” Connor says. “Because I’m the boss, and I say that thinking is outlawed for the next hour or so.”

Markus barks out a laugh, surprised at himself. “I’ve created a tyrant.”

“I’m biased, anyway,” Connor says. “I think they made the right decision. If I had to count, using my hands, the number of people you help every day, I’d need the whole of Detroit to count with me.”

“Now you’re just exaggerating,” Markus says, but his cheek does pinken.

Connor shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“What about you?” Markus says. “I feel like I’ve done nothing but talk about myself for the past hour.”

“Which I’ve enjoyed,” Connor says. “I’m not that complicated.”

“I beg to digress.” Markus rearranges himself on his pillow, his eyes running up and down his face.

“Not anymore, I guess,” Connor says. “Not after Hank.”

Markus pauses for a second. “Hank told me you were adopted,” he prompts.

“I was,” Connor says. “I jumped through a couple of homes all throughout middle school. Then, before Hank, there was Amanda. She was… My relationship with her is complicated. For so many years, I spent my nights thinking that I had to be perfect or else they wouldn’t want me, or else CPS will take me away the moment I wake up. Amanda had a way about herself. I stayed with her the longest before Hank; I wanted to please her. I was desperate for her approval. She said I was almost perfect. That if I was a little bit more obedient and a little bit more ambitious, she would have adopted me.”

“Christ,” Markus hisses.

“I realised now that what she did was not okay,” Connor says. “I think I may have even loved her as a parent at one point in my life. But if she had never let me go, then I would have never met Hank.”

It swells up sometimes, sudden and intrusive, that Hank and Cole will wake up one day and realise that Connor doesn’t belong with them, but Connor knows, logically, he’s being irrational. Connor and Cole fights once in a while. Connor and Hank fights a lot. Never, though, does Connor ever feel like he’s unwanted after.

“That’s why I don’t understand Leo,” Connor says. “When you have family who love you—family who would do anything for you—”

 _Why throw that away?_ Connor wants to say, but he stops himself.

He swallows his regret. “I’m sorry. I’ve overstepped.”

“No, Connor. I understand,” Markus reassures, the lines of exhaustion making a sudden reappearance on his face. “Drugs changes a person. But still…” Markus sighs. “Leo’s agreed to go to rehab, at least.”

Connor considers his question carefully. “Has he been to rehab before?” he asks.

“No,” Markus admits. “He’s never wanted to.”

 _Until he punched me,_ goes unsaid, but Connor hears it regardless.

They fall into a silence only broken by background noise of others. Then, Markus rolls to his side, mimicking his posture.

He gazes at Connor with a soft smile on his face. Connor notices how his fingers twitch; as if Markus itches to map his face, much like Connor’s itches to do the same. But Connor might be imposing his own feelings onto this moment though, so he refrains himself. Markus deserves this moment to call his own; this moment isn’t for Connor to indulge his romantic impulses.

As long as Markus is happy though, then Connor is happy.

“I’m biased, anyway,” Markus says suddenly, echoing Connor’s words from before. “If you hadn’t met Hank, then I wouldn’t have met you.”

Markus turns to watch the stage, and Connor takes advantage of his view to map Markus’s face into his mind; the curve of his nose, the soft rise and falls of his lips, the freckles on his face, the crease in his cheeks whenever he smiles, the stubborn dip of his which betrays his steely resolve.

A life without ever meeting Markus Manfred.

Wouldn’t that be tragic, indeed.

* * *

At first, Markus didn’t think much of Connor, Hank Anderson’s cute eldest son. He sounded nice from Hank’s stories. A little strict and blunt. Very caring and family orientated. He was definitely handsome; all sharp lines, cut cheekbones, big, brown, puppy-dog eyes, and plush lips. But as far as Markus knew, Connor seemed like another attractive person who hired him as personal trainer in order to get closer to him.

Which is fine, since Markus is expert at keeping things warmly professional, no matter how good the person looks in a crop top and booty shorts.

What changed his opinion, however, was Connor’s dedication to his training. Then it was Connor’s dry wit and carefully coaxing conversation. Then comes his quiet patience and humour. Markus sees why Hank described Connor akin to a puppy dog imprinting on you, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

Then Leo happened, and Connor’s still here.

Markus debates if he should message Connor right after already spending so much time together, but after Connor dropped him off, Markus lasts a solid hour, turning in his bed, savouring the picture of Connor smiling above him, before he gives up and checks his phone.

Connor: _Hi_ _😊_

Promptly throwing his reservations out the window, his thumbs move at a speed which would leave Paganini absolutely _quaking._ The next time he checks the clock on his phone, it’s almost three am.

Really, he should be commended for the amount of restraint he showed for that solid hour. Consider his iron will—as his friends affectionately calls it—trialled and tested.

He tries not to check his phone throughout work, since his clients and his classes deserve one hundred percent of his attention. Graciously ignoring North’s knowing smirk throughout his day, he finally steals a moment during one of his afternoon breaks and checks his phone.

No message from Connor.

Strange, but maybe he’s just busy? He flicks him a quick check in message in response.

The thought niggles at him as he checks phone after work. Still no message from Connor. That’s fine. Connor probably is super busy, and he’ll message back when he can.

The next day comes and there’s no morning message, or lunch message, or any kind of message after work. Doubt bubbles at the pit of his stomach, but he stifles it down. He’s been ghosted before, but he refuses to think that Connor would do that to him. It’s only been a day anyway, maybe he’s just being ridiculous.

So he keeps sending Connor just to make sure that he’s alright. He ends up getting caught when he checks his phone throughout dinner with his friends.

“Expecting a call?” Josh asks.

“From a certain someone, perhaps?” Simon asks.

Markus curls his mouth in an uneasy twist. “Nothing yet,” he admits. “But he’ll message. I’m sure of it.”

Josh, Simon, and North look at each other, and Markus can already imagine the conversation they’re having between each other.

 _You’re too intense._ _You fall too easily._

_You’re too generous towards people who leave when things get tough._

“I know what you’re thinking, and Connor’s not like that,” Markus defends. “We haven’t even _kissed_ yet, and it already feels like we’re past the physical. He’s probably just busy.”

“Markus,” Simon says tentatively.

“He’s just busy,” Markus insists. “He’s different than the others. Right, North?”

North glowers at being dragged into the conversation, and she chews thoughtfully. “I’ve been wrong before,” she says.

“But not this time,” Markus says. Then, with nothing else to say, he busies himself with eating his food. Thankfully, Josh changes the topic, dispersing the tension amongst them.

When he finally gets ready for bed, his phone is still empty.

Three days of no news or complete contact, and Markus is already planning to pounce on Hank during their training session.

“Still no call from lover-boy?” North asks in the staff room.

“No,” Markus says. “I’m working on it.”

“Hmm,” she says.

Markus ignores her, his mind already whizzing with possibilities. His plans are disrupted when his phone buzzes and Hank’s name come up on his phone.

“Fuck, Markus,” Hank says. “I fucked up. I owe you an apology.”

“Afternoon to you too, Hank,” Markus says. “Not sure what I have to forgive you for but consider yourself forgiven.”

Hank groans. “Now I feel fucking worse. It’s about Connor.”

Markus sits up, instantly alert.

* * *

It turns out Connor ran into trouble in one of his patrols. More specifically, he ran _after_ trouble in one of his patrols and injured himself in the aftermath. He’s been spending the last couple of days sleeping and recuperating, heavily doped up on painkillers while Hank sorts everything out between Connor’s work, insurance and Connor himself.

By the time he managed to catch a breather, Hank remember that he had confiscated Connor’s phone to avoid Connor messing with it while he’s under the influence, and it wasn’t until today that he checked Connor’s phone and found Markus’s messages.

Markus jitters through the whole car ride, precisely why North took the wheel from him. His mind reels from one bloody scenario to another. Police officers get hurt all the time. Police officers are usually at the front of the action for sudden incidents. Police officers are more vulnerable to traffic fatalities than an average citizen. Connor is a police officer.

He’s out and knocking on the door the minute North parks his car.

“Hi, guys,” Cole says, still in his school uniform, Sumo barking behind him. “Dad’s grabbing something quick from the Station so he’ll be back soon. Connor just took his painkillers so he’s a little loopy.”

“Oh,” Markus says. “Should we come back another time?”

“Nah,” Cole says. “He’ll like the company. Come in.”

They follow Connor’s little brother into the living room, where Connor sits with a blanket sprawled around him.

Connor’s mumbling quietly to himself, happily bobbing his head to his own music. His face stretches into a wide smile when he catches sight of them. “Markus. Hi. You’re here.”

Markus is almost bowled over by the unabashed openness and affection on his face. Connor’s normally so guarded and careful; he must taking some really strong stuff. 

All at once, his worry, his anxiety and concern that’s strung his muscles tight these past couple of days, melts into relief, and Markus lets his shoulders fall freely. “Connor,” he says, and he can’t help how his voice softens. “You’ve hurt yourself again.”

“Not my fault,” Connor protests. Then he thinks on it, and Markus can hear the cogs in his head turning from the effort. “Not my fault this time,” he says. “Hi, North.”

“Hello, Connor.” North hesitates, before touching Connor’s arm lightly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I may have been stabbed,” Connor says.

They gape at him.

“You may have been stabbed?” North asks incredulously.

 _“You may have been stabbed?”_ Markus almost shrieks.

“I may have been stabbed,” Connor repeats, before frowning. “Softly though,” he says. “A light nick.”

“It was way more than a light nick,” Cole corrects him.

“A light nick,” Connor insists heavily. “Lateral lower quadrant,” he repeats, although he tumbles over his words as if his tongue is thick and swollen. “No vitals though, so it’s okay. No panicking please.”

North’s eyebrows almost shoots through the roof. Adorable as he is, in the intense and efficiently polite way that’s so Connor, he's also damn reckless. Markus massages the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Would you guys like anything to drink?” Cole says. “I’m going to grab Connor some water.”

“Water’s good for us, thank you,” North answers as Markus sits on the couch beside Connor, right on the spot he’s frantically patting.

“Thank you, Cole,” Markus says sincerely.

Before Markus can say anything more, Connor slithers his arms around Markus’s waists and hangs on like a limpet. He presses his ear against Markus’s left chest and has one hand rubbing up and down his other pec.

Markus tries not to laugh. “Connor,” he says, voice shaking. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making you feel better,” Connor says.

North snickers. “I’m sure you are,” she mutters under her breath.

“Leo hurt you,” Connor says, turning to press his cheek against Markus’s heartbeat. “Cole hugs me like this when I’m sad. Makes me feel better.”

“Oh,” Markus says, and this time his voice shakes for a different reason.

Even after Leo, and all the visits to the community center, Markus knows that there’s still a small part of his friends—so dearly protective of him—who believe that Connor’s one of those people who are only in it for his looks and his money. Markus doesn’t necessarily blame them—it’s happened too many times before.

North was already halfway convinced when it came to Connor after Connor took him to the night market. As Connor continues to pat and nuzzle into his chest, he can see the last of North’s reservations melt between the panels of the wooden floor.

Connor suddenly pauses. “Markus,” he says, although it sounds like a hum from the way he’s mumbling. “Do you think Sumo sees us when he looks at clouds?”

“Yeah, Connor’s like super out of it,” Cole says, walking back from the kitchen with glasses of water. “It’s really funny to watch.”

Sumo comes over and places his paws on Markus’s knees, panting with his tongue out.

“Cole!” Connor beams. “Sumo!”

Then his eyebrows dip dramatically, his expression suddenly torn. He looks at Sumo, then looks back at Markus, and before Markus can ask what’s wrong, Connor stretches one arm to pat Sumo’s head while keeping the other solidly around his waist.

He almost tumbles off the couch because of it but somehow, possibly through the sheer will of Connor’s determination, he stays precariously on the couch.

North doesn’t even try to control her snorting. “Oh my god, Connor. You’re a mess.”

Considering Markus has seen Connor scale up a wall twice their height without breaking a sweat when he’s sober, Markus agrees.

He stabilises Connor with one hand on his firm stomach. “Woah there,” Markus says. “Careful you don’t go overboard, Connor.”

Connor tilts his head, making a small ‘o’ with his mouth, considering Markus’s statement with a small show of awe. Then, he goes back to hugging Markus with both arms, shuffling his butt on the couch so he can reach out and rub over Sumo’s back with his feet.

When Markus day-dreamt about utilising Connor’s new flexibility, this wasn’t how he imagined it. It’s still ridiculously adorable. Connor is ridiculously adorable.

Markus never imagined he would fall in this deep.

Once he’s tired of his cirque du soleil impressions, Connor grabs one of Markus’s hand and plops it right on top of his head. “Pat me like Sumo, please,” he orders.

Markus raises one eyebrow.

“I said ‘please,’” Connor urges.

“Bossy, bossy,” Markus says, but he complies anyway, curling his fingers through Connor’s hair, and lightly scratching his scalp.

Connor slumps in his arms, almost boneless. He sighs and burrows his face into Markus’s chest in a way that make Markus wants to keep Connor there forever.

Cole checks his phone. “Dad wants to know if you guys are staying over for dinner?”

Markus and North look at each other. "I'll stay if you stay," North says.

"We wouldn't want to be a burden," Markus says.

“You might as well,” Cole says. “Cus I don’t think Connor’s letting go anytime soon.”

Markus looks down at Connor. For a second he thought Connor had dozed off to sleep, but he’s pretty sure Connor’s just mumbling Saint Bernard facts against his shirt.

“No,” North says, amused. “I don’t think so as well.”

* * *

The famed Chloe comes over—to help Hank with dinner, she says—and Markus would be jealous that Connor ditched hugging him to wrap himself all over Chloe the moment Chloe came through the door if Chloe wasn’t so charming. Markus was quickly won over. Plus, North hasn’t closed her mouth since Chloe walked into the door. She’s catching enough flies to feed a family of frogs at this rate, and that’s truly a sight Markus needs to cherish.

“You must be Markus,” Chloe says, shaking his hand. “The man who gave Connor a butt. Quite honestly, you’ve done the impossible.”

Markus bites in his cheek. “You give me too much credit.”

He’s quite fond of Connor’s butt; flat or otherwise. The topography doesn’t matter when he plans to plough it to the ground either way.

When Connor’s all better, of course.

“You made a mountain where there was nothing but flat land,” she says. “You deserve all the credit you can get.”

“Bite me,” Connor says, mouthing at Chloe’s shirt. “Bite my shiny, metal ass.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, stroking her fingers through Connor’s hair. “Can’t bite something that’s not there.”

North shrieks. Markus couldn’t stop the laughter that escapes him. He clamps his mouth close with his palm immediately, his eyes wide and guilty, but the damage is done. Connor looks at him, his eyes trembling and stricken.

“I have no allies here,” Connor mutters, hurt colouring his voice. “Where’s Cole and Sumo? They’ll never betray me.”

Markus doesn’t have the heart to tell him; Cole’s already sent him photos of Connor plastered on Markus’s chest. Markus didn’t even notice when Cole got his phone out. He’s got deft fingers, that boy. Definitely, Connor’s brother through and through.

* * *

Recovery is a familiar friend, and Connor’s well used to slowly conditioning his body back into shape. This time, though, he has Markus tagging along, already such an integral part of his life. This time, Markus hovers, and worries, and Connor might just kill him because Markus is making him feel like he’s about to jump out of his skin.

“Markus,” Connor says, despite his body buzzing underneath Markus’s hands. “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” Markus says. “But just in case—”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Have no appointments until two,” Markus says. “I’m basically free.”

“Basically?” Connor asks doubtfully.

Markus shifts his eyes sideways. He gives Connor an innocent smile. “More or less.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” Connor says. “I won’t overextend.”

“And I would completely trust you on it,” Markus says, hands on his waist. “If you hadn’t injured yourself left and right since I met you. Now, you should move your feet a little more to the left to avoid relying on—”

“Markus,” Connor says pointedly.

“Alright, alright.” Markus gives his waist one last squeeze, and it looks like it physically pains him to peel his fingers off Connor’s waist. “See? No more hovering.”

Then, when Connor proceeds to not do anything, Markus sighs. “What now?”

“You’re scrutinising me,” Connor says. “I can feel it.”

Markus throws his hands up. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave.”

He makes a show out of exiting the door, but he does peek in after ten minutes to see how it’s going.

Connor rolls his eyes.

Markus hovers so much that Connor’s not even remotely alarmed when later, after he’s showered, and eaten, and is waiting for everyone else to come home, Markus knocks on the door like a man possessed.

“Connor,” he says, after barging in. His eyes run up and down. “Connor,” he sighs, relieved. “You’re okay.”

“Well… yes?” Connor says. “It’s only been two hours since we last saw each other?”

“Right,” Markus says, looking completely disarmed. “You’re completely right.”

Connor eyes him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just… I heard...” Markus trails off, flustered. “I heard on the radio that an officer was hurt in a traffic accident and I… I thought… I completely forgot that you—I look like a fool, don’t I?”

Considering Markus has lost a lot due to traffic accidents, Connor doesn’t think that at all. “Never,” Connor says, warmed by his concern. “Never for this.”

Despite his embarrassment, Markus makes no move to leave, only shuffling his feet back and forth. He does that when he’s nervous, Connor knows, when Markus is hoping for something but he’s too scared to ask for it.

It’s strikes Connor all of a sudden, like a staggering head blow, that Connor might possibly love this man. He’s never been in love before; he has only ever seen it from the peripheries, so he doesn’t know what it feels like, but if _this_ —if wanting Markus to never leave his life, if wanting all of Markus, the good and the bad—if _Markus_ is the start of it, then he wouldn’t be surprised.

 _Well_ , Connor decides. _It’s now or never._

They’ve been dancing around each other for long enough, haven’t they?

“So,” Markus begins. “What are you—"

“Markus, can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Markus answers immediately. “Yes. _God,_ yes— _”_

Connor interrupts his rambles by pulling him by his shirt and kissing the living daylights out of him.

* * *

“Wait,” Markus says, again, later on, when they’re on Connor’s bed, a heated weight pressed against Connor. “Wait,” Markus insists, pushing himself off Connor. “You’re not allowed to overextend yourself.”

Connor could scream. “Markus,” he groans. “I _swear_ to _god_ —I’m fine! Just—get back to work! We only have an hour until everyone comes home!”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t do _anything,_ ” Markus says. “Just….”

With a gentle hand, he pushes Connor on his back. Lifting up Connor’s shirt, he kisses his way down Connor’s abdomen, lingering on Connor’s scar for a second or two. Connor feels like heat is bursting from his blood vessels and fire follows the trail of Markus hands, leaving him raw, sensitive and aching after Markus’s hands are gone. 

Markus continues his assault; kissing his way down Connor’s hips, his hands busy sliding down Connor’s pants until—

“ _Oh,”_ Connor says. “ _Hngh.”_

* * *

_Hank: Is Markus at the community center? North wants to know._

_Hank: Never mind. Saw his car outside of ours._

_Hank: Fuck’s sake, Connor, remember to close your door, will you._

_Hank: Also, ask Markus if he wants to stay for dinner. We’re having curry._

_Hank: Don’t come out unless you both have pants. I’ve been scarred for life._

Connor blinks at his phone, eyes sluggish and bleary. That explains why his door is closed, since Connor doesn’t remember closing the door when he and Markus tumbled into bed. Connor would feel a little guilty about traumatising Hank, but he has a warm, pliant, sleepy Markus beside him. Nothing else could compare, in Connor’s humble, completely unbiased, opinion.

“And he says I’m melodramatic,” Connor murmurs under his breath, scrolling through the rest of his messages.

Markus, still asleep beside him, doesn’t stir, but Connor knows he’ll probably agree with Connor on this.

Connor chucks his phone onto the bedside table, burrowing back under the sheets beside Markus, and giving his chest a quick kiss before settling back down to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Please give The Great [Mimoru](https://mimorugk.tumblr.com/) all the love for her art! I cry everytime I see it.
> 
> [my tumblr](https://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com/)


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